


What’s Written in Storybooks and Painted With Bitter Hands (the World is Yours for the Taking)

by ohmygoshwhatascream



Category: Mother 2: Gyiyg no Gyakushuu | EarthBound
Genre: Angst, But also, Fluff, Gen, I kinda like it so whatever, Platonic Relationships, The POV is screwed but I can’t be bothered to re-write it so here you go, and I’ve edited it like four times for spelling errors and there’s probably more but, idk if it makes sense it makes sense to me but I wrote it so that doesn’t count lmao, like an edgy teen sandwich
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-01 21:55:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16292525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygoshwhatascream/pseuds/ohmygoshwhatascream
Summary: You’re not what everyone expected, you're not the heroes they asked for.But, maybe, you’ll do just fine.





	What’s Written in Storybooks and Painted With Bitter Hands (the World is Yours for the Taking)

**Author's Note:**

> EarthBound is actually such an amazing game, with such amazing characters and plot and oh wow just everything about it is good.
> 
> I hope this little fic did it some semblance of justice.

-

 

Saving the world isn’t easy.

It’s one of those things that should be obvious, but seems to slip everyone’s minds.

It’s not really all that surprising, though.

Saving the world isn’t something that happens in real life.

It’s not-

You don’t just...

Like... 

Save the entire world.

That doesn’t happen.

People don’t do that.

 

(Yet here they are)

 

People don’t think about it, like, at all.

But of course saving the world is difficult.

 

It’s only common sense.

 

As in, saving the world?  
Like, the entire thing?  
That’s... well, it’s not rocket science, is it? (Which is surprisingly easy, at least according to Jeff, so... umm... bad analogy?)

But yeah, saving the world.  
It’s not gonna be easy.

 

It’s just some things, all the horrible stuff that comes with the job, that people never stop to wonder about.

 

Because, again, real people - actual physical living beings - don’t save the world.

 

They do in books, sure.

Video games, movies; all sorts of fictional words have a big, strong, brave characters who run around fields and cities and kill huge monsters and save the world with almost nothing going wrong.

Then that’s it.

The end, fin, they all lived happily ever after, everything went back to normal.

 

Nobody dies.

 

(Well, that’s not true, everybody dies, but not in the same way)

The deaths aren’t important.  
Maybe they’re a plot point for a few minutes, the cool mysterious protagonist might cry, maybe be sad for, like... two more pages, but they’re so brave and strong and so damn heroic that in only a few minutes the big bad boss is suddenly impaled on the end of their sword.

 

Authors and directors and game designers just tend to leave out the inconveniences, the small things that are hard, but not interesting enough to warrant a cutscene, or even a mention in any source of fiction.

 

Like needing the toilet really bad when a huge sentient pile of sick is trying to kill you, or some big tentacle alien thing, or a murderous... clock?

(Seriously, when do you read a book where the heroes spend half an hour finding a suitable bush to pee behind? Damn Fourside with all their strangely occupied toilets)

 

What about really missing your mum when you’re fighting some big boogie-tent villain thing? 

Well, of course!

Heroes don’t have families; usually they’re all dead so lazy writers have an excuse to make their character bland and boring, all that deep sociological scarring completely draining them of all emotion - because what’s a protagonist without their sad and harrowing backstory?

 

How about accidentally dropping all your bottle rockets because somebody stepped on a twig and it made you jump?

Jeff’s anxiety runs a lot deeper than he shows, it’s sad and gross but nobody wants to bring it up, so it just gets worse and worse.

(‘heroes don’t get scared heroes don’t get scared heroes don’t get scared heroes don’t get scared heroes don’t get scared’ is the mantra that Jeff repeats in his head with every hitch of his breath or every time his heart skips a beat)

 

Setting fire to your friend because you mistook them for an evil signpost?

It’s not normal and Paula isn’t okay when she grips her frying pan so tightly her hands turn grey and her jaw clenches so tight she looks like she’s made from tin and metal, more like one of Jeff’s inventions, not a little girl.

 

(What sort of enemies are they even fighting, anyway?  
Signposts?  
Who thought that was a good idea?)

 

Or maybe throwing up on your only spare change of clothes because hamburgers are gross and unrefined for your really specific tastes.

It’s not Poo’s fault, because of some so-called ‘fate’ he’s been summoned from half a continent away.

(He should just adjust already, it’s not like he’s barely a teenager, it’s not like they’re all children lost in a world far too big for them, heroes don’t get time to be fussy.)

 

Little things like that, the ins-and-outs of a protagonist’s life, the silly mistakes that are so much bigger than they seem, and the annoying things that - while aren’t soul-crushingly awful - are just enough to make the whole saving the world thing less glamorous than you’d originally envisioned it to be.

-

 

Then there’s the huge things.

 

Crying, alone in a cave, your friends bodies passed out around you, your face bloodied and bruised, tears pouring from your eyes, your head pounding as you use the last remaining drops of your psychic abilities to kill an overgrown cockroach.

They could be dead, all of them, and it would be all your fault.

You’re the healer. Why weren’t you stronger? Better? 

 

The hatred, the burning thoughts of ‘useless’ are common when you’re alone, and all too often you find themselves dragging along the limp bodies of your closest friends, all in the knowledge you that had been unable to save them.

 

Seeing your friend’s body, pale and sickly and oh so skinny, laid out over the white sheets of the hospital bed, memorising the rhythmic pattern of their heartbeat on the scanner, praying that the intermittent beep won’t just suddenly cut out and leave you as three.

 

Things like seeing your dad after ten years apart, ten years since he abandoned you at some orphanage and left you to fend for yourself, ten years and he barely seems to remember that he has a son, ten years and you watch him replace your memory with others who are so much smarter and stronger than you could ever be.

 

Being kidnapped, locked into some strange cabin, trapped behind bars, some crazed man attempting to force you into his cult of happiness, some kid laughing as he shoves you against hard walls, twisting your wrists as you try to fight back, realising that there’s no mum and dad to rely on out in the big world, releasing that you have to trust yourself and rely on your own instincts, realising the world is changing and you are helpless to stop it. Things that no child should have to realise as they smash someone’s head in with a frying pan.

 

Seeing your family die around you, being forced to run a country you're barely old enough to understand, let alone manage. Having your soul broken repeatedly through years of harsh training under the burning sun, feeling like you’re drowning in the air, and that no matter how hard you try, you’ll never be as good as those before you.

 

Exploring your own head, seeing the evil that you have created, the bad within you that you made, realising that you’re not so good either, that maybe you’re not the heroes of the world, maybe you’re part of the problem. You’re so selfish, dragging all these innocent young minds into your own destiny, why couldn’t you have been stronger? Then they wouldn’t be sobbing in hotel rooms and shivering as PSI entered their bloodstream, closing fatal wounds and healing their dying bodies.

 

It’s not fun.

 

It’s not fun to tumble into hotel beds, boneless with fatigue and crying, crying because you can’t bear to face another day.

 

It’s not fun to see Ness hide his tears as he talks to his mum on the phone, the fear evident in his voice as he asks if everything’s okay, if Tracy’s okay, if King still lays around all day doing nothing, the desperation within him as he clings to some sense of normalcy as he uses the very last seconds of the pay phone to tell his mum how much he loves her and misses her and how he’s going to be okay.

 

It’s not fun seeing Paula bandage her fingers, bright red and peeling with burnt flesh, singed from a constant use of fire and ice, her hair tangled, her dress black with soot and her favourite teddybear nothing more than a bundle of fluff and fabric scraps.

 

It’s not fun seeing Poo struggle with his emotions, seeing his avoidance of feelings and his scary talent of pretending everything is fine when it’s not, it’s not fun seeing his shoulders shake and his resolve crack when he tries and tries to revive Jeff or Paula or Ness, his head glowing like a halo and tears springing in his eyes as he tries again and again and again.

 

It’s not fun seeing the familiar figure of Jeff hunched over a desk, his knees bobbing up and down in frantic motions, his desk in disarray and his constant mumbled worlds about how stupid he is and how he can’t do anything right and this is why his dad doesn’t love him. He never eats anymore, not enough anyway, and now you can see the bones in his cheeks and they way his eyes look gaunt and hollow, he looks half dead, so small and weak and fragile, like one day he’ll snap and break like a stick.

 

They’re all tired, so damn tired,

 

It’s not what they imagined it would be.

Saving the world didn’t seem heroic, it didn’t seem brave.

 

No,  
instead you all felt weak.

 

Weak and useless.

 

Like the world is collapsing around you, leaving you standing on a pillar, alone, isolated from the rest of the world, like everything you do, everything you say, every action you complete, is meaningless in the grand scheme of things, your every breath a waste of oxygen, your inability to accomplish anything the eventual ruin of the universe.

 

But the four of you have no choice.

This is your destiny.

 

No matter how much you don’t want it to be, you have to accept it.

It’s hard, it’s so hard and unfair and awful.

 

(But maybe it doesn’t always have to be like that)

 

-

 

Sometimes there are good days.

 

And as weeks pass, months flying past like birds in the sky, you become like family.

 

And sometimes you’ll take a break,  
the four of you.

 

Sometimes you’ve had enough of all the fighting and pain and suffering, and in the evening Jeff will be dragged from his desk, and he’ll pop the bones in his back and push his glasses up his skinny nose, so tired and so exhausted.

 

Poo will gently lift him up, ignoring muffled complaints and whines from the genius boy who can’t seem to see his own worth, and drop him into bed.

 

(Poo never mentions how easy it is to carry him, how he can count every bone with his fingertips and how Jeff’s elbows feel like tinny daggers when they dig into his sides)

 

He might mention it to Paula and a Ness later, but for now it remains a subject untouched.

 

Poo will wrap his arms around Jeff, holding him close under the warm sheets of their hotel bed. (Two beds was all they needed, none of them had a problem with sharing)

 

Sometimes Ness and Paula will join them, sliding their own bed over the floor, creating a makeshift double that they could all fit in with comfort.

 

Those were the best nights, the ones where Ness buried his nose into Paula’s hair which smelled like sunshine and strawberries and home, where Paula would tangle her long legs around Ness’ own larger ones, her calloused hands wrapped tightly around Jeff’s slender fingers. 

 

Poo would drape his arms over the four of them, his fingertips barely managing to graze Ness’ sides, but still a strong warmth and sense of security came burning off the slightest touch.

 

Jeff would lay curled up in the middle, his face buried into the pillows and surrounded by warmth and his most favourite people.

 

It was all good and pure, when they woke up late morning because heroes deserved breaks, they would laugh and joke and smile true smiles, something that had grown rarer and rarer as time has passed.

 

The first thing they’d do would be to get food, they might order a pizza and stay indoors, maybe go to one of the fast food restaurants littering every city, or, if they were feeling fancy, take a trip to one of the expensive high-end restaurants and their eyes would crinkle and their mouths would stretch into grins as they nudged each other under tables and smirked and giggled as they shared food and lived like the children they were.

-

Of course, even in those moments, things weren’t entirely normal.

 

They’d always make sure Jeff was eating, gently persuading him to try some of this and some of that, taking some form of satisfaction when he starts to look less skeletal and dying more slim and healthy.

 

They always make an effort to try and buy food that Poo likes, but some days they’ll pretend not to notice when Poo grimaces as he bites into a hamburger, or washes down a bag of fries with bottles and bottles of water.

 

But even if things weren’t entirely normal, (they couldn’t be, they were protagonists, the main characters of their own adventure, things would never be ‘normal’) they could pretend, for a while, that they were normal, like every other boy and girl, and just have fun with one another.

 

Of course, these days didn’t last forever, in a few days time it’s be back to late nights and scars that never quite heal and tears and headaches, but for now it was good, and they cherished these moments of peace. 

 

They held onto this happiness, the joy of doing what they wanted, eating ice cream for breakfast bouncing on soft mattresses, building sandcastle on the sandy beaches in Summers and making snow-angels amongst the tall cedar trees in Winters.

 

They held onto these moments, and when times would get tough, they would focus on those good times, those moments of pure bliss and pure happiness, they would remember them, remember what they were fighting for.

 

They would think of those they loved, Ness would think of his mother mother, his sister, his father,  
Paula would remember her parents, the children at her preschool, the people of Twoson,  
Jeff would think of Maxwell and all the others at Snow Wood, smiling fondly as he remembered the bright red mop of hair belonging to his best friend Tony,  
Poo would think of his parents, long gone but living on in his heart, he’d think of his teacher, the people of Dalaam and remember that he was fighting for each and every one of their futures.

 

So when days grew harder and you see your friends (or your family, you’re all so close now) get hurt, see the tears in their eyes and the grimaces in their fake smiles as they insist their fine, you can simultaneously feel each and every one of your resolves harden, you desire to complete your destinies and save the world only growing and growing as the situations grow harder and more helpless.

 

Even if everything seems fruitless, like you’re all going round on an endless loop, trapped in time, what you have here, what you can see before you, is all real.

 

Ness, 

Paula, 

Jeff, 

Poo.

 

You’re all real.

 

It doesn’t matter if, on some days, you can’t understand how what you’re doing could be saving the world, if sometimes you can’t see the point of all the pain and suffering you go through, if you ask yourself why you’re doing this, what will happen if you all just gave up and went home.

 

None of that matters because you can see how your saving your friends.

 

With every hit, every bruise, every scar made by the enemy, you all know what you must do, you all know that in order to protect one another from this world that seems destined to destroy you, you must succumb to your fate, and you must continue the fight.

 

So you ready your baseball bat, you close your eyes as fire dances on your finger tips, your eyes focus as you load your bazooka with bombs and bullets, your head glows as you summon the power of the stars and galaxies to bend to your every will.

 

Every power in the world comes down to bless you and your friends as you fight and win and grow stronger and stronger with each passing day.

 

-

 

Before long, the end doesn’t seem so far away, and you are confident that you can win this.

 

The four of you know that it will soon all be over, and while your lives will never be normal, you now have each other, you’ll never feel alone, feel useless, again.

 

-

 

Maybe you’re not the typical heroes, you’re not brave and fearless with endless confidence and an unbreakable self-esteem.

You’re children, bright eyed and innocent, you feel and fear and cry and worry, but you have courage in so many other ways.

You’re not the main characters everyone imagines in their heads, but you write your own stories, and you make yourselves in your own image. 

 

You’re not perfect, but you’re not broken either,

 

You’re strong and powerful in ways that aren’t obvious, as well in ways that are.

 

Three boys and one girl.

You’re the only hope the world has left.

 

You know, as you gaze at one another, the tiredness still there, and the fear still very real, but something more, your desire to protect and save those around you overpowers everything that had once weighed you down.

 

And maybe things aren’t all okay, maybe Ness still cries some nights when he thinks of his mum, maybe Paula stays awake, convinced her pillows are going to come alive and break her neck in her sleep, Jeff still can’t see his own worth, and still calls himself stupid, even Poo sometimes pretends he’s fine when he’s not, and lies to avoid showing his emotions.

 

But you know no way that you’re so much bigger than all of those things, that those things will no longer hold you down, you will not let anxiety and fear take away your chance of fulfilling your true potential.

 

You know, in these moments, all of them, the good and the bad, that you are going to win.

You’re unstoppable, forces to be reckoned with.

 

 

Giygas better watch out.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m a slut for comments and kudos, pleased make me feel appreciated and feed my over-inflated ego!
> 
> (No but seriously, thank you for reading this! I hope it wasn’t completeness garbages lmaooo)


End file.
